Living With The Past
by Shorina
Summary: Your past catching up with you isn't always a bad thing. As Lewis learns, his past doesn't return to haunt him, but to bring a pleasant surprise.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: The appearing characters belong to Colin Dexter and or ITV. I merely borrow them for this story which is making me no money.

* * *

A postcard was waiting on his desk when Detective Inspector Lewis arrived at work on Tuesday morning. He picked it up with a frown, going through the short list of people close enough to him to send him postcards. His frown deepened when he realized none of them was on holiday. He looked at the card – Verona, Italy.

He flipped the card over to check if it was actually meant for him. It was indeed addressed to D.I. Robert Lewis at the Kidlington HQ.

The text was short, but then, most postcards were. 'Arriving home Wednesday. M.'

M? Who was M? He read the line again. Whom did he know with the initial M? His gaze went into the distance as he went over his few friends and acquaintances again.

"Morning, Sir," Detective Sergeant James Hathaway greeted him as he entered their shared office.

Lewis blinked and his eyes focused on Hathaway. "Morning, Jim."

Hathaway had noticed the far away look in the Inspector's eyes. "Bad news?"

Lewis looked at the postcard again. "No. At least I don't think so."

Hathaway bent his knees to look at the postcard Lewis was still holding. "Verona. Must be beautiful. Who sent it?"

Lewis sighed. "I have no idea. It's signed 'M.' and I can't come up with anyone."

"Morse," Hathaway prompted immediately.

"Don't be daft man, it's a postcard from Verona, not the Garden of Eden." But he looked at the writing again. Could his Sergeant be right? It could after all be an old postcard. If he could make out the postmark... he squinted at it, turning the card in his hands to look at it from different angles. He could just about make out the letters 'eron', but no date.

"What does it say? Or is my asking against the secrecy of the post?"

Lewis looked at him for a moment as if he was contemplating whether to tell Hathaway or not. He decided not to, but just held out the card to his Sergeant who curiously took it from his hands.

"'Arriving home Wednesday'," Hathaway read. "Not even a line about the weather?"

"Can you make out the postmark?"

Hathaway did his best to decipher it, but had to admit defeat. "Sorry, no. Too smeared to be legible." He handed back the postcard. "You don't know the handwriting?"

Lewis considered it. It did look familiar. But it couldn't be, could it? "You know, you might actually be right. It could be Morse's hand."

"Which leaves me wondering whether it was the Italian or the British mail that had lost it for years."

Lewis snorted. "Seems I'll never be able to shake his ghost off. Though I can't remember him ever sending postcards from holidays. At least not to me." He dropped the card onto his desk and looked at their current case-file. "So, history class is over for today, time to get some work done. Have you checked out the alibis?"

All throughout Wednesday, Lewis was slightly waiting for something special to happen. But the day came and went. When he finally got home late, the thought crept up on his mind that he might just have missed something as the day had been busy. They had made a lot of progress on their case and it had kept them on their toes.

He scolded himself for the thought. What stupid tricks an old postcard could play with one's mind. He went into his kitchen to finally find something to eat. Approaching his fridge, his eyes fell on the postcard again. What had made him pin it to his fridge door? He took it off and read it one last time. "Time to put you to rest, Sir," he said as he dumped it into the bin.


	2. Chapter 2

Friday evening, he went out for a pint with Hathaway and Dr. Laura Hobson to celebrate the successful closure of their case. Even Innocent had been fairly happy with their result.

"So, what else happened this week?" Laura asked after they had toasted to their success.

"The Inspector got a message from the grave," Hathaway said, his face totally straight.

"Must have been a warning to keep well and fit," she replied, eyeing the way Lewis's shirt slightly strained over his stomach.

"In which case I suppose I should keep better company. Your bad jokes are more likely to kill me than the occasional pint."

Laura winked at Hathaway. "Well, what was the message then?" She asked, turning back to Lewis.

"Arriving home Wednesday."

"What - from the grave?"

"If that grave was in Verona, maybe."

"Verona?"

"Old city in Italy, lots of culture," Hathaway offered.

Dr. Hobson ignored him. "Is that some sort of cryptic riddle?"

"No, just proof of the incompetence of the postal services."

Now Laura looked even more puzzled. "It sounds more cryptic by the minute. Care to enlighten me?"

Lewis looked rather pleased at having scored one over the usually witty Doctor. "If the next round is on you... maybe."

She leaned back. "Oh, I suppose it's not that important."

"Your choice," he grinned.

"I could of course just ask James," she said, turning to the younger man. "You seem to know, don't you?"

"I do indeed."

"So?"

Hathaway cast a quick glance at Lewis and decided it might be a good idea to be on the Inspector's side on this one. "Sorry, I have to work more closely with him than you do."

"Wise decision," Lewis commented, still grinning.

"I'd call that misplaced loyalty," Laura replied. "Well, I'm not going to die of curiosity."

"Has anyone ever?" Hathaway looked at her.

"What?"

"Has anyone ever died of curiosity? I'm sure you and your colleagues are keeping statistics listing causes of death. Has anyone ever died of curiosity?"

"Careful, or you might become the first victim," Lewis commented.

"I'm sure a lot of people have, actually."

This made both men look at Dr. Hobson in astonishment.

"What? Sticking your nose in other people's matters can be dangerous. I had expected you two to be aware of that fact."

Lewis rolled his eyes at her while Hathaway tried without much success not to laugh.

"Anyway – whose round is it?" Lewis asked, looking at Dr. Hobson expectantly.

"Not mine."

"Whose do you think?" Hathaway's face was a picture of innocence.

"You call that loyalty?" Lewis asked, still facing Dr. Hobson.

"He might still need my services, too, I suppose."

With a sigh, Lewis got up. "Don't we all? What is it then – same again?" Both his companions nodded and he went to the bar.

The barman was serving someone else so he had to wait. In the meantime, he studied the other people at the bar. Next to him stood an old man, white hair, an equally white beard and wire-rimmed glasses. From the looks of him, he probably was just another old fellow of one of the colleges. Their eyes met for a brief moment in the mirror behind the bar before the barman approached Lewis.

The Inspector took the drinks back to their table and reclaimed his seat. For the rest of the evening, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of being watched. It had to be another trick his mind played on him, he decided, and with the quota of alcohol in his blood rising, he forgot about it and just enjoyed the banter that seemed to grow wilder in proportion to the number of rounds they consumed.


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday, Lewis woke with a bad hangover. His head felt like it had been more than only the last round that had been over his limit the previous evening. But remembering the fun he had had, he decided it was worth it.

After showering and dressing, he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While he waited for the water to boil, an image from last night's dream crept up on him. An image of blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He blinked. What was that about? It had probably been the way the man had looked at him that had given him this feeling of being observed all evening long. And obviously that thought had still been on the back of his mind when he had tumbled into bed.

He dismissed the thought and rummaged through his cupboard, looking for a new box of muesli. While his tea brewed, he fetched the newspaper. Their arrest had made it onto page three. After skimming through the article, he decided Innocent would be content with it; for once, no bad word about the police.

Some fresh air would do him good, he pondered after breakfast. He needed to do a bit of shopping anyway, so he walked to the nearest supermarket. The sun was shining and slightly blinded him, reflecting off the store windows. Having to squint didn't help his hangover much and he regretted not bringing his sunglasses.

Suddenly, he had that impression of being watched again – and had he seen a face amid the reflections of the sun? He turned and looked around but didn't see anyone familiar. A woman with a toddler loading her shopping into the back of her car and a young couple just getting out of another car were the only people in sight. He shook his head. What was it with him lately? Was he becoming paranoid in his old days? Firmly pushing all thoughts of being observed away, he went shopping.

He spent the rest of the day at home. Coming back in from the bright daylight outside made him realize how much his flat was in need of a thorough spring-cleaning and he set to work on it. With a window open in every room to get out the stale smell and some upbeat rock compilation on his stereo, he soon didn't mind the work any more. It was surprisingly satisfying to throw out a stack of old newspapers waiting by the door, to clean the bath so it shone again in the bit of daylight the small window let in...

By mid afternoon he slumped down on his sofa, exhausted but satisfied with his work – and without having given any further thought to blue eyes. The physical work had also helped to get rid of the last of his hangover. He picked up his phone and called his daughter who sounded delighted at the happy note she detected in her father's voice.

Lewis spent the rest of the afternoon reading the newspaper. He even tried to solve the crossword puzzle but had to admit defeat a bit over halfway through it. He was fairly certain Hathaway would have been able to help with most of the missing words, but calling his Sergeant on his day off to have him help with a crossword was out of the question. After all, crosswords had never been his favourite waste of time anyway. He managed the Sudoku on the last page without any problems though. It sort of made up for the crossword.

Around six he went to his freshly cleaned kitchen and got out his groceries. He had decided against a microwave dinner and had bought fresh ingredients instead. While he was cutting the vegetables, he thought how nice it would be to have company, cooking for one wasn't his thing. Involuntarily his gaze was drawn to the photograph of Valerie that sat in a shelf but he resisted the urge to sigh and instead smiled at the picture. "Sure won't be as good as you used to do it, love," he told the smiling photograph and turned his focus back to not cutting his fingers.

He had just put a pot of water on the stove when his doorbell rang. He stared in the direction of his front door for a moment, wondering who it would be. He didn't expect anyone. Of course his Sergeant had developed the tendency to show up unannounced, so it would probably be him, he mused and walked over to the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Lewis looked out through the spy hole, looked away and then out again. Outside stood the old fellow he had seen in the pub last night. The one whose eyes had haunted his dreams. What was he doing here?

He straightened, took a deep breath and opened the door. He didn't say a word, he was too confused by the smile that spread out over the other man's face when he saw Lewis standing in the door, dressed in a no longer quite clean, striped polo shirt and a pair of jeans.

"Lewis!"

Lewis blanched at hearing the voice. It was so familiar. He looked right into those blue eyes and blinked. 'No, that's impossible,' he thought.

"But it is, Lewis, it is," the old man replied in that familiar voice.

Had Lewis said those few words out loud or was this a hallucination that answered to his thoughts?

"Is there any chance you'll ask me in or are you going to make me stand out here for the next hour?"

Lewis still couldn't do anything but stare at the man. What his senses told him he was seeing and hearing, his mind insisted was impossible.

The old man lowered his voice. "I can see this is a bit of a shock for you, but if you let me in I can at least try to explain."

Lewis stepped aside, his eyes not wavering from the other man as he stepped into the flat and looked around curiously. A splashing and hissing sound finally made Lewis snap out of his consternation and with a mild curse he dashed past the man to the kitchen. His water was boiling and already going over the rim of the pot. He pulled the pot away from the heat and first yelped, then cursed when some of the hot water burnt his left hand. He turned off the heat and held his aching hand under the cold water of the tap. The moment of agony had been intense enough for him to forget about his visitor.

But the visitor had slowly followed behind and was now standing in the entry to his kitchen, watching Lewis, then studying the groceries spread out over the worktop. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner plans."

Lewis whirled around. His consternation was suddenly replaced by fury. "Whoever you are, this is not funny."

Blue eyes studied him from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Who do you think I am then?"

"I have no idea. But you are not him. You cannot be."

The old man took off his glasses and smiled sadly. "I am 'him' and yet I am not, Lewis."

The way this man pronounced his name made shivers run down Lewis's back. "Would you care to explain that?" Lewis looked closer at the eyes. They were incredibly familiar, even more so now that the glasses were gone. He nearly winced at the similarity.

"Can we sit down, please? This explanation is going to take some time."

A part of Lewis just wanted to kick this man out the door, another part of him hung on to the hope those few words 'But it is, Lewis, it is' had brought up inside of him, clung to this hope with all its might. So Lewis wordlessly pointed to his sofa and watched the other man walk over to it.

He probably was the right age, and without the glasses and the beard... no, it was impossible. Whoever this man was, he simply could not be the late Chief Inspector Morse.


	5. Chapter 5

Not-Morse sat down on Lewis's sofa with a slight sigh and waited for the younger man to do the same, but Lewis couldn't. He was too confused and upset to sit still. Instead he paced up and down his living room.

"So? I'm waiting," he said after turning again in front of his bookshelf, trying not to let the part of him that clung to this absurd hope gain the upper hand. He tried to concentrate on his fury. Fury that someone was trying to mess him about.

"Would you please sit down, Lewis? Your carpet is not responsible for this so there's no need to punish it."

"I'll sit when I want to."

"As you please."

Both men remained silent for a moment.

"I'm still waiting."

"I'm sorry. I've been through this a hundred times since I got Strange's letter, but it doesn't make it any easier."

Lewis stopped dead in his tracks. "Strange? What's he got to do with this?"

The other man sighed. "I know you must think I am dead, Lewis."

"I _know_ Chief Inspector Morse is dead. I don't know who _you_ are."

The old man chuckled. "In some way, you're a hundred percent right, my friend. Chief Inspector Morse _is_ dead. My name – according to my passport – now is Edward Masters."

Lewis narrowed his eyes. "Your name _now_?"

"As you said, Morse is dead. He died from a heart attack."

"You're not very good at explaining things."

"I suppose I'm a bit out of practice. Now, please, let me try to tell this... mad story."

Lewis nodded. "Go on then."

"As we both agree on, Morse is dead. However, I was Morse. At the Radcliffe, they told me that I was indeed dead for a couple of minutes, but they brought me back to life."

Lewis wanted to protest, but Not-Morse held up a hand in a silent plea to let him continue and Lewis shut his mouth again.

"When I regained consciousness some days later, Strange was at my side. And he had pulled an impressive trick out of his hat. To this day I have no idea how he managed it, but when I woke up again I was no longer Morse, I was Edward Masters. I had a new passport, was entitled to a pension and he had arranged everything for me to be transferred to a sanatorium in Verona. I was too weak to ask a lot of questions then – or to protest."

Lewis had finally dropped down in his armchair and was listening with growing surprise and curiosity. "But – why?"

"Ah, a good question. One I asked, too. To this day I am not sure if it is true but Strange told me that someone I had put away for a very long sentence – before you became my Sergeant, Lewis – was due to be released from prison soon and had repeatedly uttered threats to my life. And I was in no state to deal with such a threat at the time."

Lewis furrowed his brow, trying to assess the probability of everything he was hearing.

"A week later I was in a stable enough condition to be transferred to Italy. Strange had arranged everything. There was a bank account in my new name that my pension was paid to and he later explained that Adele was the one person he had told about his plan. She had put her share of the bequest into a foundation which paid the cost of the sanatorium. He had not told me where the money came from for a long time and I had asked him repeatedly by the time he finally let me know. Strange was the only person from Morse's life with whom I had contact."

"But why? Why didn't you get in touch? Why did you let everyone believe you were dead?" With surprise, Lewis realized that he was apparently accepting that the man sitting on his sofa was, indeed, the late Chief Inspector Morse.

"I had to promise Strange I wouldn't. For as long as everyone thought I was dead, I was safe. If word had gotten around... he made me believe this man's hatred for me was so strong that I would not even be safe in Italy."

Lewis shook his head. "It's a mad story indeed."

Morse sighed. "I know."

"But – why now? Why are you here?"

Morse looked up at him. "Because you're the only person I have left, Lewis. And I trust you to keep my secret. And as to the 'why now' – fate is cruel, my friend. It's been cruel to both of us. We both lost our wives."

Lewis sat back and stared at Morse. "Wife? But... you were never married?"

A sad smile appeared on the old man's face. "Morse wasn't. Edward Masters, however, was." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his billfold. Out of it he took a photograph that he held out to Lewis. "This is Carlotta, my late wife. We met at the sanatorium and the years we shared were the most wonderful I could ever have wished for."

Lewis studied the photograph of a woman in a wheelchair, wearing a white dress with a flowery pattern. On her face was a warm smile and she had a hand raised to her eyes to protect them from the sun. It was a picture of happiness. He looked back up to Morse and noticed that the older man's eyes held a wet shimmer. Silently, Lewis passed the picture back and watched as Morse gently caressed the photograph with a finger before putting it away again.

"How did she die?" He just had to know more.

"Cancer. She was a brave woman, Lewis, fought it for many years. It was what had brought her to the sanatorium. In the end, the cancer won."

Morse swallowed before continuing. "Anyway, nearly two months ago now, I received a letter from a lawyer, Strange's lawyer. Strange had died..."

This information made Lewis gasp. "What? I didn't hear any of that."

"He didn't live in Oxford any longer, he had moved into an old people's home closer to his daughter."

"I... I didn't know that..." Lewis felt slightly guilty for totally losing track of the people who had once played important roles in his life. Strange had always been a good and fair boss.

Morse simply nodded. "No, you wouldn't. He moved away so he could leave the job and everything involved behind. Anyway, his lawyer passed on a sealed letter to me. It wasn't long, it only said that if I ever wanted to return home, I'd find an old friend who would understand my grief. He had enclosed a newspaper cutting on the death of your wife. I had no idea, I only rarely read a British newspaper and Strange had never told me. I am very sorry for your loss, too, Lewis."

They looked at each other, both men's eyes wet with unshed tears.

"Me, too," Lewis said quietly, himself unsure whether he was referring to his or Morse's loss.

They sat in silence for a while until Morse made to get up. "I suppose that was enough for you to take in for one day. I'll leave you to your dinner now."

Lewis was on his feet before he had even consciously considered getting up. "No."

Morse looked at him, surprised at the resolution in this one word.

"Please stay. I hate eating alone. It's enough for two, though it'll be a while. And I'm no grand cook, but anyway..." He looked at his former boss sheepishly.

Morse smiled in return. "I'll gladly stay."

A smile spread over Lewis's face.

"_If_ you'll let me help. I suppose together we can make something out of the collection of food in your kitchen. Carlotta was a wonderful cook and she taught me a lot of old family recipes."

Out of an inexplicable urge, Lewis stepped up to Morse and hugged him. "Welcome home, Sir." His mind quoted a gruff but slightly affectionate 'Don't fuss, Lewis' at him, but his ears picked up the words "It's so good to see you, my old friend," while Morse returned the hug. A moment later they both looked at each other, feeling slightly foolish.

"You must stop calling me 'Sir'. Remember, Morse is dead. Let's leave it at that."

"Well, what shall I call you instead?"

"I think I'll leave that up to you."

"What did your wife call you?" He still had a bit of a hard time getting his mind around the fact that there had been a wife at all.

Morse smiled at the memory. "_Eduardo_. I always quite liked how she transformed my new name to the Italian form. But I don't think it's very suitable for Oxford."

"Nor do I." Lewis looked over his shoulder at Morse as he walked over to the kitchen. "I suppose I could call you 'Master' now," he said, grinning.

"Oh no, you won't." But Morse sounded equally amused by the thought.


	6. Chapter 6

They had a lot of talking to do, both men eager to catch up on what had happened in the other one's life. Especially Morse's stories were often interrupted by questions that suddenly popped up in Lewis's mind. Morse couldn't answer them all, but he did his best.

The first one of these thoughts came up during cooking, when Morse enquired whether Lewis had any red wine in the house.

"Should you be drinking?" It hadn't been good for Morse already when he had still worked with him. And though Morse looked surprisingly healthy now, he didn't think it'd do him any better now.

"No, I shouldn't. But there's more you can do with wine than just drink it, Lewis. You can, for example, cook with it, which gets rid of the alcohol but keeps the flavour."

Lewis rolled his eyes at Morse for the lecture but still found a bottle of wine in one of his cupboards and handed it over.

"I haven't had a single drink since I... since Morse died," Morse explained. He winced slightly at the expression but it still was the best way to describe it.

Lewis seemed impressed which made the older man laugh. "What – you thought I couldn't live without it?" He didn't wait for Lewis's answer. "The love of a woman can make up for a lot. I didn't miss it then and now I am used to not drinking."

"But you were at the pub last night."

"Oh yes, and so were you and, unfortunately, Dr. Hobson. And who was that cocky young man rounding up your _trio-infernale_?"

"Hathaway, _my_ Sergeant. Why didn't you say a word when I stood next to you at the bar?"

Morse looked at him with an expression that said 'Do I really need to explain it?'. "Well, just think of how you reacted when I showed up on your doorstep. I wasn't sure whether you had recognized me last night, but I didn't want to take any chances, not with another person around who knew me."

"But that was Laura! She'd never give you away."

"She doesn't know it's a secret, Lewis."

"Robbie."

"What?"

"If I am not to call you 'Sir', you are not to call me 'Lewis'."

Morse laughed. "Fair enough, Robbie it is."

Lewis's next unexpected outburst came during dinner.

"The morgue!"

Morse looked up at him from his food. "The morgue?"

"I saw you there, I... said good-bye to you." He didn't mention the kiss he had placed on Morse's forehead. Or had he?

"I am fairly certain I was never in the morgue. Well, at least not... horizontally."

"Then who was it? He sure looked like you."

Morse sighed. "I don't know, Robbie. It wasn't me. I don't know to what trouble Strange went, maybe he had someone from the theatre over to make a John Doe look like me. "

"And I didn't notice?"

"People see what they expect to see. You were apparently expecting to see me. And considering that people always look differently dead..."

"Yeah, probably. But I really don't know how Strange managed that. He was around at the station most of the time. Well, as far as I could tell."

"Maybe it wasn't him in person. I still suspect he smuggled me onto the witness-protection-program somehow. I never could get him to tell me why or how he had done all he had."

Lewis looked at him for a long moment. "No matter why or how, I'm glad he did. I just wish I'd have known."

"You know _now_. And I can guarantee you, there aren't many who do."

The final questions of the evening came up when they were sitting side by side on the sofa and Morse was talking about his former wife's beautiful voice. "You should have heard her sing, Robbie. Her singing made my heart melt..."

It must have been the reference to music that triggered the thought. "Have you ever contacted Adele?"

Morse blinked, obviously taken by surprise by the question. "Adele? No. No, I never did. Strange had told me she didn't want the money as I wasn't really dead. But she also didn't want any contact with me. Well, I never heard that from her, but I took Strange's word for it. And by now she is most certainly married herself. And she's in Australia, which isn't exactly just around the corner. No, my friend, it's best to just let her live her own life. She decided against me years ago and I must respect that decision. After all, if she hadn't decided that way, I never would have met Carlotta, so I suppose I must be thankful."

"Why did Strange decide to let her in on the secret in the first place?" He felt a bit betrayed by his former Chief Super that he had entrusted Adele with the secret, but not himself.

"Just because she is so far away, I suppose. Certainly no one would have gone looking for her down in Australia if there was no reason to believe I was alive and that she might know where I was."

"Yeah, I suppose. I still wish Strange had told me..."

They talked until late in the night, both relieved to have someone to talk to so openly. The first awkward feeling had soon dissolved and they felt at ease in each other's company. It was nearing midnight when Morse yawned and checked his watch.

"That late? Does time pass quicker in England than it does in Italy? I really should be going."

"Where are you staying anyway?"

"I have a room at the White Horse until I find something else."

"I can give you a lift there, if you like," Lewis offered. "That is, if you don't have a car yourself," he added as an afterthought.

"A lift would be fine, thank you. Along with proper accommodation, getting a car is on my to-do list."

"Does that mean you're not only here for a visit?"

"That is exactly what it means."

"I'm glad to hear it." The smile on his face left no doubt that he meant it.

He drove Morse back to the pub and they agreed to meet for a walk the next day.

That night, Lewis dreamt of blue eyes again. But this time they didn't haunt him. They smiled at him and were accompanied by a familiar voice telling him stories of operas and the beauty of Verona. It was the best dream he had had in a long time.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Lewis found himself whistling while he put the kettle on and prepared his breakfast. The smell of the previous evening's dinner still lingered in his flat and made his mouth water. Morse had been right, he really was a good cook.

Around eleven he set off in direction of the canal where he was supposed to meet up with Morse. When he approached their meeting point, he could see the other man standing bent over a banister, looking down at the water. He casually walked up to him and stood there, sharing the view. "Hello, Sir," he greeted Morse, not realizing his mistake until Morse turned to look at him.

"Who, Sir? Me, Sir?" There was a childlike amusement in Morse's eyes that Lewis had not seen before but definitely liked.

"Yes, Sir, you, Sir."

Morse laughed openly. "Oh Robbie. You have no idea what memories that brings up. Houseboat - Carlotta loved that film. She knew most of it by heart."

Lewis cocked his head and studied Morse, smiling in return. The other man had changed more than he had realized the previous evening. Morse seemed a lot more relaxed than he had been as his boss. That certainly was a change for the better.

"You know, as beautiful as Verona may be, I really missed this," Morse said, gesturing over the canal and the area beyond.

"Wait until Wednesday. Forecast says rain and cold temperatures. You'll wish you were back in warm and sunny Verona then!"

"I suppose I should put a rain coat on my shopping list, too." Morse smiled at him. "Shall we walk?"

Lewis easily fell into step with him, he didn't even need to think about it. Years of accompanying Morse had made sure he did it instinctively.

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes until curiosity got the better of Lewis. "Are those glasses for real or... cover?"

Morse seemed amused by the idea. "They're 'for real' as you put it. My sight faded a bit over the years. Carlotta chose these frames for me. She thought they made me look _elegante_, distinguished."

"Well, they made me take you for an old fellow of one of the colleges the other night."

"Oh, did they?"

"Yeah. The glasses and the beard. Carlotta again?"

"Yes and no. I was lazy with shaving the first month or so at the sanatorium. I didn't see the point in it. But when Carlotta told me she liked bearded men, I trimmed it into shape and it stayed."

Lewis nodded. "The things we do for love."

Morse smiled. "We do, indeed."

They stopped for a light lunch at a pub further down the canal.

"Why did you make it sound like such a bad thing that Laura was with me the other evening?"

It took Morse a moment to sort out what Lewis's mind had jumped to now, as he had been thinking of something completely different.

"Oh, well, she knows me, obviously. Or rather, knew me. If she had recognized me there and then, I would have had a hard time, explaining that I am not... him. And with the two of you... I stayed at the bar all evening until you were gone, hoping that if I didn't come into her sight, it wouldn't get to it. I nearly held my breath when you appeared at my side."

Lewis smiled. "That look you gave me across the mirror followed me home and into my dreams. Which reminds me – were you at the supermarket yesterday morning?"

"Supermarket? What supermarket? I live at a pub, I don't need to go grocery shopping."

Lewis shook his head. "Then I was seeing ghosts."

"The ghost of Morse?"

He nodded, laughing. "Yeah, that must be it." He turned serious again. "We'll have to tell Laura. If you stay in Oxford – and we stay in touch – chances are you'll bump into her at one point or another."

Morse looked over the canal for a long moment. "Yes, I suppose we will have to let her in on our little secret."

"You really can trust her."

Morse looked back at him. "I hadn't expected her to still be here, still doing that grisly job."

"I'm glad she is. She's the only friend I still have from old times... well, had," he added with a smile which was mirrored. "And she's the only decent pathologist in the whole of Oxford!"

"All right. We'll tell her. But grant me a little time to settle in a bit before I have to face her. Returning to Oxford is quite a culture shock after Italy."

"Yeah, all right. I just don't want to have to lie to her."

Morse looked at him curiously. "Is there something I should know about the two of you?"

"What? No. Of course not. We're old friends, is all."

"If you say so."

"I do. You should see the people she invites round to parties. I could never compete with those."

Morse shrugged his shoulders. "There are friends and there are friends, Robbie."

"And there are dead friends and friends you didn't even know existed."

"There are, indeed. And I am glad to find that other people's friends can easily become your friends."

Lewis laughed. "God, that sounds so very cryptic."


	8. Chapter 8

Over the next days, Inspector Lewis changed. Hathaway was the first to notice it. His boss was suddenly smiling more often, his jokes were less cynical. He even caught him humming while driving. Something was going on that he wasn't aware of. On the one hand, he didn't want to snoop around, on the other, he was curious. Curious enough to bring up the subject in the car.

"What's that you're humming?"

"Hm? Was I?"

"Yup."

"Oh."

Hathaway waited but the Inspector didn't offer any further insight.

The next evening, Hathaway proposed a drink after work but got turned down. "Sorry, can't."

"Don't tell me you have suddenly developed a social life, Sir?"

"And what if I have, Sergeant?"

"I could get out the red pen and mark it on the calendar?"

"Oh, that bottomless pit of wit you call a sense of humour, Hathaway. What about your social life? No band practice or anything?"

"That's tomorrow, Sir."

"Ah. Well, see you on band-practice day then. I'll try to let you get off on time to your practice if you're a good little Sergeant."

Hathaway looked after him bewildered. "A good little Sergeant?" He shook his head and got out his mobile. Maybe someone else could shed some light on this. He hit the speed dial for Dr. Hobson's mobile.

"James, to what do I owe the honour?"

"Good evening to you, too, Doctor. If you can spare some time, I'd like to treat you to a pint."

"_You_ are offering _me_ a drink? What's wrong?"

"I hope nothing."

"And you suspect what?"

"That's where I was hoping you could provide some insight..."

"You're aware that I'm a pathologist, not a mind-reader?"

James sighed. Why did people have to be witty when he was trying to be serious? "It's about the Inspector. He's... different. I was wondering if you know what's going on."

"I have barely seen him all week. But that offer of a drink sounds too good to miss. Pick me up at the morgue in twenty?"

"I'll be there."

Half an hour later, they were sitting in the very same pub they had partied at the previous week.

"So, what's the matter with Robbie?" Laura Hobson asked when Hathaway sat down a glass of wine in front of her.

"I don't know. He's just so... different. There must be something going on. He's smiling a lot, he doesn't have time to go for a drink, today he was even whistling. I think that's nothing bad, but he's being so very secretive about it when I try to ask..."

"Oh, and of course you always tell him everything about your private life, don't you?"

"No. But I don't think anything going on in my private life makes me change my habits that much."

"If they're good changes – why do you worry? Or are you just plain out curious?"

Hathaway sighed. "I'm not worried. Curious? Well, yes. Admittedly. He's not acting like the man I've gotten to know over the last years. He's not _re_-acting the way I expect him to any longer. Most of all, he's even more evasive than before."

"Is Lyn in town?"

He hadn't thought of that. "I don't know."

"If she was, it would of course explain why he doesn't have time to entertain his Sergeant..."

"But I know Lyn, I've met her before. Why would he make such a secret of it?"

"Ah, that I can't say. But you're right, it doesn't make much sense, him keeping Lyn a secret."

"So, what else could it be?"

"Now, I know this may sound like a very far-fetched idea: He has met a woman?"

"And he can't say it when I ask him?"

"Well, have you?"

"Yes. No. Well, not in those words."

"You see, that's the problem with the two of you. You both beat around the bush and then complain that you don't understand each other."

"Well, we're men after all."

Laura laughed at that. "Oh yes, fine examples of the male sex you two are."

Hathaway glared at her.

"Sorry, but sometimes I wonder how you two manage to get cases solved, seeing how little you talk."

"We _do_ talk. About work."

"So if you don't hear anything about whatever brought on this change in Robbie, you can be certain it is private and therefore none of your concern."

Hathaway studied her. "But now you're curious yourself, I can see that. Let me know what you find out?"

She chuckled. "What makes you think I'll go snooping around?"

"Well, we're both curious and I think we've established that the Inspector and I aren't discussing it. So I think that leaves the task of satisfying our curiosity in your hands."

"If I get another one of these," she pointed at her glass, "I might see what I can find out. I might even let you in on it. _If_ I find anything out, that is."

"Deal."


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, Dr. Hobson's phone rang during her lunch break. 'Lewis calling', her display informed her.

"Well, hello there, Inspector."

"You know that usually people answer the phone with providing their own name?"

"Oh, doing what people usually do is so very boring. Also, I suppose you knew who you were calling and luckily we live in the age of caller ids so I could see it is you who wanted to talk to me. Was that what you wanted to discuss?" She could practically hear Lewis's scowl at the other end of the line but resisted the urge to grin.

"No. But if that's the greeting I receive, I might change my mind about my original reason for calling."

"Which was?"

"To invite you to dinner."

"In that case, shall we start over? Hello, this is Dr. Laura Hobson."

"Oh, very funny, Laura."

"If it earns me an invitation to dinner, it's worth it to my mind."

"All right, all right. So, are you free tomorrow evening?"

"As it happens, I am indeed."

"Is eight OK? My place."

"You know, sometimes you really have a way with words, Robbie. But yes, eight is fine. Please don't tell me you are going to cook?"

"I promise Dr. Cook won't have to perform an autopsy on you afterwards."

"Oh, you're going to confess to poisoning me. That's a big relief."

"You're terrible. Sometimes I really don't know why I consider you a friend. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Robbie." As she cancelled the call, she allowed the grin to spread on her face. 'Now that should be a good chance to ask some questions...'

She quickly typed a text to Hathaway to let him know she would hopefully manage to find out something the next day.


	10. Chapter 10

Lewis was glad he wasn't assigned an urgent case so he could spend Saturday shopping with Morse who had suggested an Italian dish that sounded good to Lewis's ears. They had trawled through three shops to find all required ingredients.

Back at Lewis's flat, Morse was beginning to find his way around the kitchen, having spent more than one evening of the week in his former Sergeant's company. Lewis had insisted on him getting a mobile phone so he could reach him. As Morse had at first refused, he had simply gone off and bought a prepaid phone for him. "Welcoming gift," he had explained to Morse who had accepted it with an amused shake of his head. But he had soon discovered that being able to agree on meeting times and places on short notice held its advantages. Over the years spent in Italy, he had forgotten about the hassles coming with the irregular working hours of a police detective.

Today, Morse and Lewis would let Dr. Hobson in on their secret and the former DCI still liked the pathologist enough to want to turn it into a pleasant evening among friends; hence the special dish. It had been his favourite recipe out of Carlotta's seemingly unending supply of new dishes.

"You'd better warn her before she sees me," Morse suggested while they were working side by side in the kitchen.

"Oh, she's strong. Wouldn't be surprised if she took it easier than us."

Morse smiled. "You have no idea how much I missed that."

"What?"

"Your... _northernisms_."

"Oh, yee should hev sez, gadgie! Aa've a git big supply of those. " He grinned.

Morse took his time to sort through these sentences before replying "I am certain you do, but there's no need to overdo it. This is Oxford after all."

"Like one could ever forget that."

"You'd be surprised how much and how easily one can forget, Robbie..."

Lewis glanced at him sideways but Morse didn't elaborate the thought. He didn't ask, didn't really feel he needed to. That was one of the wonderful aspects of having Morse back. He'd been gone for years, he had changed in some ways, but he was still Morse, albeit with a new name and look. Deep down, he was still the man Lewis had known and worked with and slowly come to think of as a friend. It felt good to stand here with him at his side, weirdly familiar though they had never done any of this in the old days. Just being with Morse made it seem familiar. He still hadn't decided what to call him. So far 'you' seemed to work just fine. At least he was slowly shaking off the habit of calling him 'Sir'.

As the afternoon went and evening came, Lewis noticed that Morse seemed nervous. That was new, too. But it made him appear more human than ever. "It'll be fine," he said.

"Yes, I'm sure it will."

"Then why are you nervous?"

"Because I don't know her as well as I do you. Coming to see you was hard enough on me, but her... I was never quite sure where I stood with her."

Lewis placed a hand on Morse's shoulder for a moment until the doorbell rang. "That'll be her."

Morse nodded and Lewis went to the door.

"Hello Laura," he said as he opened the door to let her in. "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for the invitation – unless you _do_ want to poison me."

"I swear I don't."

"I'll have to take your word for it, I suppose." She waited for him to signal her to go through, but he kept her waiting.

"I... we're not alone this evening."

Her eyes studied his face curiously.

"I want you to meet someone special. A … long lost friend."

"A long lost friend. Yours or mine?"

"Ours, I think."

"You're being incredibly evasive lately, Inspector."

He rolled his eyes at her. "You'll understand, well, maybe not immediately."

"I think I'd better meet this 'long lost friend of ours' before you confuse me even more."

"Yeah. Well, go on through." He wasn't sure how she would react. Would she really be as cool as he had thought? He followed her into the living room. As Morse was sitting with his back to the hallway, she only saw the back of his head until he stood up and turned around.

"Good evening, Doctor."

Laura stood stark and stiff when she heard the voice. She stared at Morse for a while, then turned to look at Lewis. "I hope this is no bad joke."

"It's not, I swear. If it's any help, I had that thought, too, when he showed up here a week ago."

She turned to face Morse again. "Now I know why Robbie doesn't trust my colleagues' reports. Someone very obviously messed up on yours. But I hadn't thought they were that incompetent."

Morse smiled at her. "I am pleased to see you haven't lost your wit, Doctor."

"I am pleased to see you haven't lost your life, Chief Inspector."

"Oh, but he has," Lewis added from behind her.

"What?" She swirled around to look at him. "Don't be ridiculous. If this is no bad joke, he's standing right there in the middle of your living room."

"I think what Robbie meant to say," Morse interjected, "is that Chief Inspector Morse _is_ dead. _My_ name is Edward Masters."

"His name _now_ is Edward Masters," Lewis tried to clarify.

She looked from one of them to the other and back. "You boys are not making a lot of sense this evening."

"How about we sit down for dinner and I'll do my best to explain it to you, Doctor?"

"How about you stop calling me Doctor? If this is a social gathering, Laura will do just fine. Calling me Doctor all the time just makes me want to go and find your death certificate. Or Morse's. Or whatever. All right, you've done it, I am confused."

"Then I shall try to _un_-confuse you, Laura," Morse said with a smile. "If you'd like to sit down, dinner should be ready any minute now." He headed off towards the kitchen and Laura followed him with her eyes before turning to Lewis.

"Don't tell me he's living here?"

"Nope, lives at a pub for the moment until he can sort something out. But he's done most of the cooking, he's better at it than I am."

"Well, there's some consolation... I might survive this evening after all."

Throughout the evening, Morse and Lewis managed to satisfy Dr. Hobson's need for explanations and they spent the last hour happily chatting and laughing. "Do you need a lift back to your pub? It's pretty much on my way home." Laura checked her watch. "And it's about time I go. I hate Sunday shifts but that doesn't mean I don't have to do them."

"Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll help Robbie clear up. He's been complaining about his kitchen never looking so cluttered with pots and pans before."

"Nah, I can do the washing up tomorrow. You don't have to help. It's nice to have friends over. Doing the washing up is a small price to pay for it."

"Well, if you think so," Morse hesitated.

"I do," Lewis stated firmly.

"In that case I will gladly accept your offer, Laura."

"Good." She reached for her bag and instinctively checked her mobile. She had muted it and therefore hadn't noticed the text she had received from Hathaway. She didn't bother to read it now. But it made her think about her promise to him.

"You know, there's something else. I won't give away your secret, but James has noticed you're acting differently. This evening I saw what he meant. We had both suspected you had met a woman and I was supposed to find out about it. What am I going to tell him?"

Lewis grimaced. "Hathaway. Yeah, he's been trying to sound me out all week, only he's not been very clever at it."

Laura laughed. "I gathered that much from my conversation with him."

He looked at Morse. "Do you think we can let him in on it, too? These two are the only real friends I have, I'd hate having to come up with some cover story for James."

"You trust him?"

"Yeah, I do. I fear he's as loyal to me as I was to you."

Morse had to laugh at that. "In which case I suppose we can entrust him with our secret. But no more, all right?"

"No more," Lewis confirmed.

"What about your kids?" Laura asked, looking at Lewis.

"Live their own lives far away from their old dad."

"And at least one comes for a visit every now and then," she gave back.

Morse decided to intervene before it turned into a heated discussion. "In which case I am sure we can decide on a tactic when it comes to it. For now, only the three of us and Hathaway. From what I heard of him I am actually looking forward to meeting him."

"Oh, you two will get on just fine. You'll be exchanging clever ideas about literature and music and I'll feel left out."

"You'll still have me," Laura said, winking at him before she turned to Morse. "Ready to go?"

"I am." He offered her his arm and she took it.

"And we can decide on what I tell Robbie's cocky Sergeant on the way."

Lewis showed them out and a moment later stood at a window, watching them drive off. His life definitely had made a turn for the better throughout the last week. Now how to deal with Hathaway... he only knew _of_ Morse, so the tactics would have to be different than they had been with Laura. That, and Hathaway deserved a lesson for sticking his nose into things that didn't concern him. He couldn't even talk himself out of this with an excuse of being worried. No, his Sergeant had been plain old nosy.


	11. Chapter 11

Sunday morning, Hathaway was woken by the text notification beep of his mobile. He had fallen asleep on his sofa once again to the backdrop of music and with wine mixing with the blood running through his veins. Not yet fully awake, he rubbed his eyes and stretched a bit before picking up his mobile. A text meant it wasn't a call out so there was no need to hurry.

The text was from Dr. Hobson and not very informative. 'ws swrn 2 scrcy. soz!'

Hathaway all but scowled at the tiny screen. Now that wasn't helpful at all.

A call out came by mid afternoon. He had been sitting at a table in a café, reading and enjoying a cappuccino. After ending the call, he hurried home to change into a suit and still made it to the scene of crime before Lewis. Just because it was closer to his home than Lewis's, he supposed.

He spoke to the FOAs _[1]_ to get an idea of what they were dealing with. It looked like a car accident, one fatality, the passenger; one person, the driver, injured. The driver had claimed to have had no brakes at all, which made it suspicious. It might turn out to be just bad maintenance, it might be foul play.

He spotted Dr. Hobson on the other side of the crashed car, inspecting the dead body. He walked over to her. "Hello, Doctor."

"Sergeant." She pointed at the body of a woman still strapped into the passenger seat of the car, which was upside down. "Head injury, probably sustained when the car flipped over."

Hathaway risked only a brief glance into the car before straightening again.

"So, how was the initiation rite to the secret society?" He avoided looking at her directly as he asked and studied the nearby trees instead.

Laura craned her neck to look up at him. "You're not brooding, are you, Sergeant?"

"I was merely enquiring whether you had a nice evening."

"I did, thank you for asking."

"I think I can second that," Lewis said, who had overheard the last two lines. "What have we got?"

"Car crash. Driver is seriously injured but should make it. He's on the way to the Radcliffe. This lady in the passenger seat wasn't as lucky," Laura stated.

"Car crash – what brings us in on it?"

"Might be foul play, the driver mentioned not having had any brakes," Hathaway informed him.

"Could be a mechanical failure," Lewis mused.

Dr. Hobson straightened. "That is for others to figure out. I'm no car pathologist."

Lewis grinned at the joke. "The techs should put that on their business cards, car pathologist. Sounds very high profile to me."

"Well, I'll swing my high profile back to the lab with her,"she said, pointing at the dead passenger. "My first guess, as I already told your brooding Sergeant, is that she died from a head injury, sustained when the car flipped. Details later."

"I will try to tame my curiosity until your report finds its way onto my desk."

"Good man." With that, she motioned to her assistants that they could now move the body.

Lewis, on the other hand, faced his Sergeant. "Brooding? You surely don't look like you're doing any more of that than usual."

"I'm trying not to exaggerate, Sir," Hathaway said, slightly irritably.

"Good. While you're doing that – any ID on the driver and passenger?"

By Monday morning, the technicians had decided there was no foul play involved. The brake hose had been skewered but not by human interference. A line of drips of brake fluid had led them to their point of origin where they had discovered what turned out to be a piece of a broken wheel cap that had gotten stuck in a crevice at a very unlucky angle. More bits of the same wheel cap had been found at the side of the road. The technicians suggested a truck had run over the cap which had broken it apart and probably forced the piece into the crevice.

A sad story backed up by Dr. Hobson's report. There was no case for Lewis and Hathaway. Still, the Inspector seemed busy, tapping and clicking away at his computer while Hathaway dealt with the formalities of writing a report that merely stated they hadn't had a case after all.

When he was done and had printed the short report, Hathaway walked around the Inspector's desk, placed it in front of Lewis and curiously studied what was on the screen. "Verona?"

"Ah, done with that report? Good. Let's see..." He quickly read the printout and signed it. "Looks good to me."

Hathaway had been standing over his shoulder, hoping for some insight into the Inspector's sudden interest in the sights of Verona. "Planning to go on a holiday, Sir?" He asked as he took the report back from Lewis.

"Me? Nah, just curious. After all, I can see old buildings all around me here in Oxford. Why go to the trouble of flying to Italy for that?" Lewis got up and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. "I'm out for lunch, call us if anything special comes up."

Before Hathaway could say another word, Lewis was out the door. Hathaway switched off the Inspector's computer screen and went to hand in the report. He wished his boss kept a desk calendar so he could see whom he was meeting. Yes, he _was_ curious. Curious who had brought on this change in the Inspector. Sometimes he could use a dose of such a person himself.

Verona... well, at least he had an idea of what might have brought that on: The postcard from the grave. Though why it suddenly made Lewis show interest in the city when he had pretty much dismissed the postcard after figuring out its secret did puzzle him.

He handed in the report, glad that the Chief Super wasn't around. Or so he had thought. He nearly collided with her when he turned around. "Oh, my bad, Ma'am."

"No harm done, James. Where's Lewis?"

"Gone for lunch."

"Without you? And I thought you two were rather inseparable."

"Was there anything you need of the Inspector, Ma'am?" He really didn't feel like commenting on _that_ statement.

"No, just wondering," she replied absent mindedly as she strode past him to her office.

'So am I, Ma'am, so am I,' he thought and went outside for a smoke.

* * *

_[1] FOA: First Officer Arriving_


	12. Chapter 12

When there wasn't a new case for them the next day, Innocent suggested they should find a cold case and go through it again. See if anything was overlooked at the time, if they had any new ideas. She would find one for them if she had the time, but she was already threatening to be late for a meeting.

To Hathaway's surprise, Lewis happily complied and spent the next half hour looking through the by-now-digital index of old and cold cases. Finally he sent Hathaway to the archive to get the material on a case for which he only gave him the file number.

When Hathaway returned a while later with two big boxes, the younger man was more puzzled than ever. He had thought Lewis hated going through stuff that was related to Morse, he already complained about every crossword puzzle that came up in any victim's house! Still, the file number had led him to what he believed must have been one of Morse's last cases. Unsolved.

"Any special reason you picked this case, Sir?" He sat the boxes down on his desk and opened the lids, looking for the main case file to pass it on to Lewis.

"It's cold. It's unsolved. I think that's just the kind of case Innocent was referring to. Anything you don't like about it, Sergeant?"

"Too early to tell. I was just wondering..." 'And I do a lot of that lately,' he added in his mind. He passed the main file over to Lewis and started unpacking the filed evidence that filled up the rest of the space in the boxes. A pair of trainers with blood stains, a stack of papers that looked like... he skimmed over the top page. Like poetry? But none he recognized. Next came a stack of photographs and a lot more things that had once been in the victim's possession.

By the time they packed up work that day, they were vaguely familiar with the case. Still, Lewis insisted on taking the file home to get a better idea of the case. His superior showing that much initiative over a cold case had to be another sign of the changes going on, Hathaway decided.

He was even more surprised to find Lewis already at his desk and on the phone when he arrived at work the next morning. The Inspector's jacket was over the back of his chair and he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Hathaway sat down and waited for the Inspector to finish his call.

"I have no idea why Strange assigned this case to Peters when Morse fell ill. It's no wonder it was never solved." He tapped a note with his pen.

"Who's Peters?"

"New DI at the time. He was reassigned to a rural CID shortly after I made Inspector. He was totally out of his league here. No idea if he fared any better in his new position..."

Hathaway nodded at this information. "Does that mean _you_ are on to something?"

"I might be." He got up and grabbed his jacket. "Let's go and jog some people's memories. I'll fill you in on the way."

It took them two days to come up with a suspect and, with the help of modern policing in the form of a DNA analysis, they had the case closed by Friday afternoon. Innocent seemed very pleased with them. "I suppose I should let you pick cold cases yourselves more often. This," she pointed at the report Lewis had just handed over and she had quickly scanned, "was really good work. Well done, Lewis."

"Thank you, Ma'am. I'll pass the compliment on."

She gave him a quizzical look.

"To Hathaway," he explained, pointing in the general direction of their office. "Couldn't have done it without him."

She still looked a bit oddly at him but decided to let it pass. "Very well. Off you go then. I suppose you two will want to celebrate this with a pint." The surprised expression on Lewis's face brought a smug smile onto her face. "It's my job to know what my Detectives are doing, Lewis. Dismissed."

Lewis strode back to their office where Hathaway was already waiting for him.

"Compliments from Innocent," Lewis said as he entered the room.

"I will need to get the red pen out after all. Are we free to go then?"

"You make it sound as if we were under arrest!"

"Aren't we? I thought she was our warden."

"Funny, James. Yes, you're free to go. Band practice?"

"Nope. My diary says 'pint'. I was kind of hoping yours does, too?"

"Actually, it doesn't. But make that an orange juice and I might still come."

"Does that mean you're driving?"

"Do you have to try to interpret some deeper meaning into every word I say?"

Hathaway remained quiet. 'I might just as well stop, I haven't been doing very well with it lately,' he thought.

Lewis eyed him, suppressing the grin that threatened to sneak onto his face. Curiosity had been written all over Hathaway's face all week long but he would have to ask to get an answer. "So, how about that juice?"

"All right, I give up. Can I buy you an orange juice, Sir?"

"How kind of you to ask."

As they stepped out of the station, Hathaway instinctively turned in the direction of their regular pub.

"Ah, no. We're going somewhere else today."

Hathaway eyed him quizzically. "Any special reason?"

"Fresher orange juice."

Hathaway didn't comment and just fell in step with the Inspector.


	13. Chapter 13

It took Hathaway twenty minutes of nursing his pint to finally muster up the courage to ask.

"Sir?"

"Hmm?"

"I know it's none of my business..."

"That sounds like here's a _but_."

Hathaway nodded, but didn't look directly at Lewis. "Yes. But." He finally looked up. "What's going on?"

"I believe you call this 'having a drink'?"

Now Hathaway was compelled to roll his eyes at his superior.

Lewis leaned back in his chair comfortably. "You're right, it _is_ none of your business. Still, if you'd finally ask the right questions, you might get answers."

This made Hathaway sit a bit straighter in his chair and choose his next words very carefully. "Who, or what, is making you act so differently from the man I thought I knew?"

Lewis nodded appreciatively. "Not bad."

"But not good enough to get me an answer?"

Lewis emptied his glass and stood up. Hathaway feared he'd just walk out but Lewis waited for him. "Drink up. Time you met someone."

Hathaway quickly downed the last of his pint and was on his feet in record time, which made Lewis grin. "This has been bothering you quite a bit, eh?"

Hathaway nodded, still swallowing down the beer. He followed Lewis up a staircase. They were meeting someone up here?

Lewis knocked on the door to one of the rooms the pub rented out and opened it without waiting for someone to bid them in.

The room was fairly small. It contained a bed, a wardrobe, a dresser and a table with two chairs. An old man looked up from the chair opposite them, a folded newspaper lay on the table in front of him.

"Ah, Robbie. And Sergeant Hathaway I see. I'm pleased that we finally get a chance to meet." The man got up and held out his hand to Hathaway who took it but looked puzzled.

"I'm afraid you hold an advantage over me, Sir."

Lewis grinned. "This, James, is the ominous 'M' who sends postcards from the grave."

Hathaway's jaw all but dropped as he studied the man he was facing. He'd seen pictures of 'the ominous M'. But wasn't he supposed to be dead? He looked rather helplessly from one man to the other.

Lewis finally had to laugh out loud. He'd never seen Hathaway so much at a loss before. "Take a seat and we'll try to explain."

Hathaway took the chair nearest to him, Morse took the chair opposite and Lewis sat on the edge of the bed. And over the next hour, Hathaway learned the whole story about the late Chief Inspector Morse, now Edward Masters. He found Morse, no, Masters, to be a much more cheerful person than everyone had made him believe so far. Watching the way his Inspector reacted to this man finally answered his question beyond doubt. He was facing the reason for the change in Lewis's behaviour.

By the time the two men had finished their explanations, Hathaway eyed the folded newspaper, he had totally forgotten about it. He expected it to be opened to a crossword puzzle, if Lewis's accounts of Morse's love for them wasn't exaggerated, but it looked like notices for flats.

"Looking for a new home, Sir?"

Morse looked down at the newspaper. "Yes, in fact. I hadn't planned on spending the rest of my days living above a pub. But there doesn't seem to be anything right for me on the market. It's all either too big or too far out of town for my likes."

Hathaway considered this information for a moment, then looked at his superior. "Didn't you tell me some of the tenants in your house were looking for a successor?"

"Darn, you're right. I had totally forgotten about that. Ground floor. Not sure if they've found anyone yet, but I could ask if you like." He looked at Morse.

"You and me, living in the same house? Do you think that is a good idea?"

"Actually, yes. I could still benefit from all those Italian dishes you can do."

Morse laughed heartily at that. "Oh well, why not. The area is quite nice, not too far from the canal either. Yes, please do ask if they are still looking. I really would like to get out of here."

"Meaning you want somewhere you can play your music without the backdrop of the pub-noise."

"And you complain about me interpreting your words. You do the same with his," Hathaway commented, grinning. The easy atmosphere was contagious.

Not much later, Lewis and Hathaway walked out of the pub together. Based on his new knowledge, another question had come up in Hathaway's mind.

"Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"The cold case... he helped with it, didn't he?"

Lewis shrugged his shoulders. "Barely. He was merely a sort of contemporary witness. He told me what he remembered about the case, yes. But the investigation – that was us. You and me."

"So we're not going to turn into a trio now."

"What? No way. I'm not used to his wild theories any longer. Definitely not, Jim. The team's you and me. He's got nothing to do with the job any more."

Hathaway didn't comment, but a smile spread across his face as he walked beside Lewis.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, Lewis rang the doorbell of his downstairs neighbours and was glad to find they were indeed still looking for someone to take over the flat. He arranged for Morse to come and see it in the afternoon.

By evening, it was decided that Morse would take over the flat and even be able to keep a lot of the current furniture. The tenants had bought a cottage and were putting in new furniture there, so they were glad to leave most of the old stuff behind. They would be moving by the next first, which was roughly two weeks away.

During dinner that evening, Lewis suggested Morse could move into his guest room until he could take up residence downstairs. They toasted to the idea, albeit with mineral water only. The following day, Lewis picked up Morse and his few belongings he had brought from Italy at the pub.

By the the next weekend though, Lewis was glad Morse was only a temporary guest in his flat. He wasn't used to living with someone any longer and found it irritating. Being able to say good bye in the evening suddenly seemed a very valuable option. So when the first came, he was glad to help Morse settle into his new home.

Morse's eyes turned wet when Lewis gave him a turntable and speakers for his new home, along with a slightly dusty box from his cellar. When Morse opened it, he found quite a few of his old records that Lewis had claimed at the house when it had been time to split up the inheritance. He had tried to listen to them at first, but the memories had been too painful at the time. Still, he had never given them away. Now he was returning them to their rightful owner.

Hathaway and Dr. Hobson came over in the evening and they held a little party. The visitors had even brought a bottle of alcohol-free sparkling wine so they could toast to Morse's new home. Morse kept telling them they could enjoy a real drink if they wanted, he wouldn't mind, but they declined and the lack of alcohol didn't hamper the mood.

Over the next weeks, Lewis spent less time with Morse. Two cases had come up that had him and Hathaway work long hours and Morse had decided it was time to go and see some operas. Still, they met regularly to chat, go for a walk or enjoy dinner together. Other days, Lewis called him up, inviting him along to the pub with Hathaway and Dr. Hobson. The arrangement worked fine. Morse was a close friend and Lewis was glad he was back. But the whole episode had also strengthened his friendship with Hathaway and Hobson. A shared secret probably could do that to you. He wasn't complaining.


End file.
